Your Sins Will Find You Out
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sin City tag: Dean has a lot to think about. Sam ending up in the hospital doesn't help.


**Your Sins Will Find You Out**  
K Hanna Korossy

He wasn't usually a lie-in-the-bed-and-think kind of guy. But this morning—or probably late afternoon by now, actually—Dean Winchester had a lot to think about.

Setting aside what Casey had told him about Hell, because, honestly, he wanted to think about that one as little as possible, there was still the other little bombshell she'd dropped. More demons than just Yellow-Eyes—Azazel?—wanted Sam to take charge of their demon army. And some of them were not happy with their abdicated leader.

Dean looked over at his sleeping brother. He wasn't a what-if kind of guy, either; what was the point? But some part of him couldn't help wonder what he'd have decided at that crossroads two months before if he'd known what he was bringing Sam back to. Whether Sam hadn't been someplace better, maybe with their parents and Jessica. If maybe Dean should've even joined them instead of pulling Sam back to him.

And what now? Or, better yet, what ten months from now?

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. Well, he'd find no answers in the sheets that smelled of exactly what the mirror on the ceiling and the Magic Fingers suggested. All he could do was keep going, and make sure Sam would keep going.

Dean sat up, yawning and glancing at the clock. He'd gotten back to the room around ten that morning after seeing Bobby off, fully expecting Sam to be packed and chomping at the bit to go. Instead, he'd found his very weary-looking brother slumped on the edge of the bed, the Colt in his hand. "Ruby was here," was all he'd said, and while Dean had cursed, had added, "I'm tired, Dean," and stretched out on the bed fully clothed, immediately falling asleep. It didn't look like she'd hurt him—Dean had quickly checked—but whatever that black-eyed bitch had talked to Sam about, it had apparently wiped out the adrenaline-high he'd been riding.

The change of plans hadn't surprised Dean all that much; he'd seen how carefully Sam had been walking earlier, and Bobby said the possessed padre had thrown him pretty hard into a car. Dean had even offered to stay over another day, let them rest up—God knows _he_ was beat after that night—but Sam had been the one adamant about leaving. Seemed like his body had had other ideas. Dean had just shrugged; the questions could wait. He'd eased the Colt out of Sam's hand, checked him for fever, and thrown a blanket over him, then turned in too.

That had been a solid eight hours before, and Sam, their resident insomniac, was still asleep. So much for _Let's get out of here, Dean. _Dean snorted and stretched out to kick his brother's mattress. "Rise and shine, Sammy."

Sam muttered something, then his breathing evened back into sleep.

Dean rolled his eyes. Not that he wasn't glad to see Sam sleeping—he knew full well about those middle-of-the-night research sessions Sam had been pulling since he'd found out about Dean's deal, even if they both pretended he didn't—nor did he ever begrudge his brother recovery time. But this town was officially giving him the creeps, boobs and booze aside, and now that he was sure he wouldn't fall asleep at the wheel, Dean was anxious to put it in their rear view. Sam could sleep in the car and whatever room they ended up in for the night. "Sam," he raised his voice a little, and his foot, shoving Sam's blanket-covered knee.

Sam's features tightened briefly in what almost looked like pain, but otherwise there was no reaction. And…now that Dean was paying attention, did the kid look kinda pale?

Dean frowned and stood. He stepped over to Sam's bed and felt his forehead and cheek, then moved down to his pulse point. Skin lukewarm and clammy, heart beating like a jackhammer.

Dean cursed and grabbed for his phone. He didn't know why or how it'd happened, but the symptoms were pretty clear: Sam was going into shock.

There were times he did wonder _what if_...and then there were moments—as they'd taken their suicidal stand against the six Deadly Sins, after Bela shot Sammy, when his brother was slipping away in the bed next to him while Dean friggin' _slept_—when Dean was despairingly certain Sam had gotten the worse end of his big brother's deal.

00000

"You really didn't know?" the doctor pressed Dean, calm voice just a little accusatory.

"Seriously, doc," Dean snapped. "You think I wouldn't've brought my brother in sooner if I'd known he was _bleeding_ inside?"

One graying eyebrow rose. "You couldn't have known that, of course, but there should have been symptoms _something_ was wrong—pain, dizziness, weakness—"

"Sam's good at hiding things," Dean said tersely. "Can we just focus on how he's doing now?"

The other eyebrow joined the first, and Dean recognized the look: twenty years ago, the guy would've already been on the phone with Child Services. But unless they seriously thought Dean was…abusing Sam or something, they'd have to let it go now. Preferably before Dean punched somebody in the face. "Yes, of course. Sam is resting comfortably—the surgery went well. He was fortunate it wasn't a major bleed or he probably wouldn't have even made it here."

Dean's face darkened.

"As it is," the doctor hurried on, "we were able to repair the damage easily. He'll need to stay here a few days, then some recovery time at home to get his strength back, but he should be fine."

Dean relaxed his shoulders a little, noting with a moment of chagrin the doctor's obvious relief. _Don't tick off the nice people with the needles, dude,_ he could hear Sam's amused admonishment in his head. He didn't always mean to get so intense, but the thought of Sam lying there in the bed unconscious, blood turning his belly dark… Dean shook his head. "Yeah, uh, thanks, that's good news. Can I see him?"

"Can you wait until he's out of Recovery?" the doctor asked hesitantly.

"Uh…no?" Dean tilted his head.

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "I'll have a nurse take you." He started to turn away.

Dean did, too, until something occurred to him and he stopped. "Oh, hey, doc?"

The guy cringed, Dean was pretty sure, but his face was blank of emotion when he wheeled back.

"The symptoms you were talkin' about. Could they include not…you know, acting like yourself?"

The doctor considered him with mild interest. "Not the internal bleeding, no. But Sam obviously also hit his head when he…fell, and while he's not concussed, there could be other effects. Why, did—?"

"No reason," Dean said quickly. "Just, uh, wanna know what I can get away with teasing him about, you know? Bark like a chicken, cluck like a dog?" He offered what was probably a very unconvincing grin.

From the look in the grey eyes, Dean had definitely sealed the guy's opinion of him as a dangerous lunatic, and probably an abusive boyfriend. Oh well. He grimaced as the doctor quickly fled, then turned his charm on the next nurse that walked past.

"Hey, do you know where…?"

Five minutes later, a pretty brunette was escorting him to a door. Dean absently flashed her a smile and went inside.

He'd wheedled his way into post-ops to see Sam before, and they were the same across the country: a large room divided by curtains into individual bays in which rested patients in various stages of grogginess. One was heartily throwing up into a basin a nurse held, while another giggled to herself. Only one other non-patient was in there, a mom talking softly to her four-or-so-year-old rugrat, who clutched her finger and blinked in lazy incomprehension. They let parents in to see their children, but adults were usually on their own. Of course, adults didn't usually live under constant threat of their lives, either. And Sam would always be, in the privacy of Dean's head, his kid.

Speaking of whom, Dean caught sight of tousled dark hair to his left, with a hot nurse bending over the bed. Dean grinned, half relief, half amusement. That was his boy, working those Winchester genes even when unconscious. Dean moved toward them.

The nurse stiffened as he approached, and shot Dean a look over her shoulder. He couldn't quite read it, but she didn't look happy with him.

"Oh, uh, they said I could come in," he said, pointing vaguely back over his shoulder. "Just wanted to check on m'brother." Dean quickly scanned Sam, relaxing a little more at the sight of the color creeping back into pale cheeks and the deep, slow rise and fall of his chest.

The nurse managed a smile that looked more like a grimace, and pulled a hypodermic out of her uniform pocket, flipping off the cap and checking the dosage.

"And that's for…?" Dean asked, still trying for friendly, although the woman's hostility was setting him on edge. Did everyone in this hospital need to work on their bedside manner?

"Nausea," she said tersely, and jammed the needle into the port on Sam's IV.

Dean nodded slowly, trying to figure out the niggle of disquiet in the back of his head. Seeing Sam in the hospital always freaked him out a little, but this was something else, something not about Sam, something…

…about a nurse who administered unlabeled medications from her pocket. Dean's brows beetled. "Wait a minute—"

The nurse had already turned away and was hurrying toward the door.

The not-right feeling expanded through his chest, and Dean's hand slipped into his pocket. "Christo," he called after the woman.

She looked back with a hiss, her eyes black.

Dean cursed, pulling the flask out of his pocket and, unscrewing the top with a single twist, flicking its entire contents at the possessed nurse.

He might as well have splashed her with Kool-Aid. Unflinching, she turned and ran for the door.

_What the…?_ Dean growled, then quickly dove for Sam's bedside. He yanked the needle out of his brother's arm without even trying to be gentle. But even as he did, Sam's head suddenly snapped back, his back arching, and he started to shake.

"I need help here!" Dean shouted, letting Sam's arm go to press his shoulders down to the bed. "Don't do this, Sam," he said sharply to his brother. "Don't you do this!"

People in white flocked in around them. Dean let them push him out of the way, but every line of explanation he gave was interspersed with _Christo_ and, for good measure, _Deus. _Let them think he was praying; with Sam flopping around like a beached fish, he probably should have been.

But nobody else's eyes were going inky, and pretty soon Dean could barely see Sam at all from the knot of people around the bed. No one else would be able to hurt Sam now, and Dean couldn't help any more there.

Grimly, he turned away and stalked for the door.

He found her outside, hurrying toward the parking lot. By the time she could hear Dean's quiet chanting, she was on her knees on the asphalt, convulsing as the demon inside her struggled to stay. Dean pressed on, the words flowing off his lips like they'd inexplicably refused to the night before, until she threw her head back and black smoke writhed out of her, into the sky.

But not to Heaven.

The woman collapsed at his feet. Dean checked to see if she was alive, but no heart beat in that chest anymore.

Dean hung his head. Then stood and went back inside, alone.

They'd find her soon enough.

00000

"We believe your brother will be all right, but we'll know more when he wakes up."

Turned out even suspicious family members—or lovers, Dean rolled his eyes—got cut some slack when their loved ones were in bad shape. Once the staff had figured out Sam had been dosed with something your average layperson wouldn't even be able to pronounce, let alone procure, they'd stopped looking at Dean like he was a danger to Sam. Finding the dead nurse outside hadn't hurt, either; rumor already had someone paying her to kill Sam, until she had second thoughts and done something stupid. It probably wasn't even that unusual for the town those days. It had taken only a few obsequious comments for Dean to realize they were worried he was going to sue them or something. It should have made him even angrier, but he just felt…tired.

Sam was holding his own, but he wasn't great. The seizure from whatever the demon had given him had torn open his stitches and strained his already weakened system. He was running a low post-op fever, and they'd kept him sedated so his body could concentrate on healing. Which, Dean firmly believed, was the _only _reason he was lying so still and pale in the bed.

Dean scrubbed his hands up his face and through his hair. "So, he'll be okay?" he asked a third time.

"We think—"

Dean grit his teeth. He knew they couldn't promise him anything, but he wanted to hear just one solid bit of good news. "Yeah, whatever, thanks," he cut the doctor off before the guy could finish his latest disclaimer, and herded him toward the door.

The doctor frowned at Dean—oh, yeah, no love lost with this dude, and it was totally mutual—then turned and left.

Leaving the two of them alone. As always.

Dean breathed out slowly, looked Sam over. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should've been there sooner, should've stopped her. I knew they were…" The demon must have been one of the non-believers Casey had warned about, the ones who hadn't wanted to follow Sam. Or, heck, maybe she was a disillusioned faithful. They'd probably be getting them from both sides now, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling the end of his days pressing hard on him.

His miracle was in jeopardy. This wasn't what he'd cashed in his soul for: only two months for Sam, followed by ten months of lonely Hell on Earth for Dean before he traded it for Hell below. Or, even if Sam was okay, twelve months of demons chasing them before Dean left his little brother to fend for himself. He snorted softly. "'S like the Ghost Rider—trades his soul, doesn't read the fine print…" Dean's eyes had been a little blurred when he'd made his own deal. Not that Sam would appreciate the comic book reference; even as a kid he'd preferred books without pictures. Freak.

Dean slumped against the side of the bed, feeling more weary than he could say. "The nurse, she reacted to _Christo_, but the holy water didn't even faze her." Sam couldn't hear him, maybe, but Dean had always thought better bouncing ideas off his brother. "So, what, are we facing some new, stronger kind of demon here? Do they even get like that, like…drug-resistant or something? Or…" He abruptly straightened. Or…

Dean's mouth clunked shut. He dug into his pocket and, forgoing his flask, pulled out the bag of salt he carried routinely now, quickly drawing a thin circle around Sam's bed. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Sammy." Dean leaned over his brother next, hand sifting into his brother's long strands. "I have to go now for a little bit, okay? I'll be back soon, just gotta check something out. You're safe here—don't go anywhere without me, you got that?"

Sam sighed, sleeping on.

Tarnished though his miracle was, Dean never stopped being grateful for it. He tipped his forehead for a second against Sam's, breathing his air, reminding himself what being a big brother meant. Then he pulled away with reluctance.

He was also a hunter, and he still had a job to do.

00000

Sam had always had an uncanny sense of timing. Dean had just gone out for coffee, succumbing to the need for caffeine after three hours of sitting in Sam's room. Naturally, that was when his brother chose to wake up. Dean walked in the door to find Sam agitatedly trying to push himself up.

Dean dropped the cup on the counter and crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Sam's arms. "Hey, take it easy, man. You're safe."

Sam, panting, squinted up at him. "Dean?"

"Yeah." Sam stopped straining to get up, so Dean cautiously released him and moved back a whole few inches. "Look at you, eyes open and everything. You feeling okay? I mean, besides the obvious?"

Sam was still getting his bearings, but Dean could actually see the panic recede from the wide hazel eyes at the sight of him, and that…that had never ceased to make him feel like he'd done at least something right in his life. "I'm…yeah, I'm— Ow." Sam's hand drifted to the sutures low on his abdomen.

Dean intercepted his hand. "Hey, no feeling yourself up yet. You just had surgery, dude."

"Surgery?" Even as Sam's fear lessened, his confusion deepened, and it was all so…_Sam_, that it loosened several tight knots in Dean's gut. This was the guy who'd angst for weeks over killing even a possessed, dangerous person. This was the Sam he'd traded for.

"You really want the whole story right now?" Dean asked with an upraised eyebrow.

Adrenaline rush fading, Sam was starting to sag back in the bed and looked again like someone who'd just been carved up. "Maybe later." His fingers were weak where they'd come up to grip Dean's forearm, and his bruised eyes were starting to sink shut. "Y'all right?" he breathed.

Dean smiled a little. "I'm fine, Sam. You're gonna need a lot of beauty sleep, though, kiddo, and then we're gonna have a little talk about you hiding things from me." When the other was lucid, they usually trusted each other's self-assessments, and Sam hadn't said a thing about dizziness or pain. Although, Dean still wouldn't stop kicking himself anytime soon for not noticing earlier something was wrong.

Sam just looked bewildered and wary, though, and Dean patted his chest.

"Get some rest, Sammy. I'll be here."

Sam finally gave up, sinking back under with a frustrated sigh. His hand went lax over his brother's arm, and Dean gently slipped free of the hold.

He watched Sam sleep for a long moment, which he totally had every reason to considering his brother had nearly bought it twice in the last twenty-four hours. Then Dean shook his head and collected the cup by the door before pulling his chair up closer to the bed and sitting. He retrieved the notebook he'd been writing in before coffee had called, then leaned back, put his boots up on the edge of the bed—he was kinda hoping to get a reaction from the doc on that one—and went back to work.

00000

Dean unlocked and opened the motel room door quietly in case Sam was still sleeping.

He needn't have bothered. His brother was sitting up against the headboard, bent over his journal as he wrote. At Dean's entrance, he set it aside and looked up expectantly. "Hey. Where've you been?"

Dean gave him a smug smile. "I figured I should take advantage before the town cleans up its act. Found a high-stakes poker game, had some fun."

Sam's smile was indulgent in turn. "Win anything?"

"Nope," Dean said, pushing the deposit slip for a cool twelve grand deeper into his shirt pocket. "How 'bout you? Another exciting day of daytime television?"

"Yeah. Kendall's whole revenge plan's starting to crumble, and Ethan's trying to frame her for murder."

Dean frowned mid-roll of his sleeves. "Who now?"

Sam waved him off. "Never mind." He leaned back gingerly. "So what were you talking about, the town cleaning up its act?"

Dean paused, just for a second, eyes sliding to the right of Sam. "I didn't tell you?"

Sam sat up again. "Tell me what?"

"I was sure I told you." He threw Sam a grin.

His brother wasn't buying. "What? Dean, what did you do?"

Well, it was time for him to fill Sam in, anyway. He would've earlier, but it was the first time his brother didn't look like he'd fall asleep in the middle of the conversation, and this part was safe to share. "The demon who dosed you in the hospital? She didn't react to holy water, either, man, and I got her with a good faceful."

Sam blinked. "Seriously? Huh. You think maybe they're some kind of immune—?"

"Yeah, that's where I was going first, too, until I realized, where'd we get our stock for this hunt?"

Sam's face creased in bafflement. "You mean what's in our flasks? Same place we always do: filled up at the next church we happened to be in."

Dean nodded. "And this time that was…" He could see realization dawn on Sam's face. "Yeah, I'm thinking a possessed priest isn't about to make the real deal. But, hey, who would even know except—"

"—except hunters who're using it on demons." Sam exhaled, looking a little ill. "You mean, Trotter's really—"

"No," Dean shook his head, "Trotter's a hundred-percent twisted human through-and-through. But, get this, his right-hand guy, the dude with the beard? And the hooker in the bar? Both members of the Black Eyes club."

"You exorcised them?"

Dean winced. "Got the girl. Had to shoot Trotter's guy." It was good to have the Colt back in play, but using it was something Dean took little pleasure in.

Sam nodded slowly, accepting that. Then he leaned forward, his arm pressed across his stomach. "So…you think the town, how it's changed, there _is_ some combination of human and demonic influence, after all?"

Dean shrugged. "People aren't saints, dude—maybe some of them do just need a nudge. But Trotter's lookin' a little lost without his trusty adviser, one prostitute less won't hurt, and the spiritual leadership around here hasn't exactly been helping, either. I'm thinkin' things'll change now, at least a little."

Sam eased himself back. "Huh."

"Yeah."

Dean stood. He returned to the table by the door where he'd dropped the keys and a bag of food, and started unpacking Styrofoam containers. He should tell Sam the rest. Dean had debated it for long hours in the hospital, wanting at least to do some research of his own on Azazel first, but ultimately, the memory of Sam lying unconscious in their room had decided him. He could lie to his brother if he needed to, but Dean couldn't expect Sam to not hide things from him if Dean did it himself. Especially not when it was information Sam might need to keep himself safe, because like it or not, Dean wouldn't be around forever to protect him.

He cleared his throat and focused on sorting out the plastic silverware. It let him avoid Sam's eyes when he continued. "Sam, uh, when you're feeling better, we should talk. 'Bout the Colt and…Casey—the demon bartender chick—she told me some stuff, stuff you should probably know."

He half-expected Sam to push, with that kind of opening. But the fatigue in his brother's voice gave him an idea why Sam wasn't. "Yeah…Ruby said some things, too."

Dean looked up at him and saw Sam rubbing his thumb against the edge of his journal. It was an old childhood habit Dean had tried to discourage him from every single time he'd had to bandage a papercut, apparently to no avail. It usually meant Sam was chewing on something, but if he was willing to talk about it, Dean could cut him some slack. "Apocalypse going down in the next twenty-four hours?" he asked casually.

Sam started. "What? No."

"You dyin'?"

"I don't think so—"

"Then food and rest first." Dean said firmly, handing over a plate of charbroiled chicken and coleslaw. "Dude, wait 'til you taste this—it's their local specialty. It's gotta be one of the town's sins right there."

Sam groaned, glaring at him from the cocoon of blankets because he was still too weak to do anything more.

Yeah, prime demon-army leader material. Still not completely safe yet, but Dean had ten months to make sure he was. And meanwhile, Dean would be there to watch and make sure his sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

He shook his head, giving Sam an honest-to-God smile that his brother returned with puzzlement. Then Dean dug into his food with true hunger for the first time in days.

**The End  
**


End file.
